


Soldier, Poet, King

by sappho_42



Category: 14th Century CE RPF, Richard II - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works, Shakespeare - History Plays
Genre: Gen, My first work for this fandom, Platonic Relationship, References to Christianity, Song: Soldier Poet King, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:00:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23019694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sappho_42/pseuds/sappho_42
Summary: Inspired by the song “Soldier, Poet, King” by the Oh Hellos. Three short studies of York, Bolingbroke, and Richard.(And Northumberland’s there too.)
Relationships: Edmund of Langley Duke of York & Henry Percy 1st Earl of Northumberland
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2





	1. Soldier (York and Northumberland)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Soldier, Poet, King](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/564421) by The Oh Hellos. 
  * Inspired by [The Wilton Diptych](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/564511) by unknown. 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Northumberland asks York a question and it takes York *way* too long to answer.

How did it come to this? York wondered to himself. Had he been a fool to turn to Bolingbroke’s side? Well, “turn” was a strong word— he would tell himself he had only done what any true English man should have done. And, no, he couldn’t say that he’d been foolish at all. Despite his puny contribution to the usurper’s cause— to Bolingbroke’s cause, he reminded himself— he felt confident in the duke’s ability to overcome the king.

There he went again. A twinge of remorse for betraying a king he no longer wanted to support. No, not a king. A man.

The sound of heavy footsteps broke his disquieting cycle of thoughts. York turned to face the door to his chamber. In the pregnant silence, Northumberland nodded in acknowledgement of his host. On his side hung a battle-tested iron.

_There will come a soldier, who carries a mighty sword._

Northumberland brought with him a whole other host of questions, as numerous as the armies he had pledged to Bolingbroke. Did York envy him? He could not say he’d never considered the luxury of having Northumberland’s power.

“I thank you for your hospitality,” Northumberland began. “As does Lord Bolingbroke.”

York straightened. “No thanks are required. Any man would have done the same in my position.”

Northumberland barely narrowed his eyes, but York got the impression of being sized up. “I wonder if that’s true,” he murmured.

“My lord?”

“Pardon me, sir, I’ve taken too much from you already—“ Northumberland turned to leave.

“No, stay.” York didn’t usually use a commanding tone with his equals, and both knew it. “What did you mean?”

“My lord, I only meant...” Northumberland searched for the line between curiosity and tact as a man unaccustomed to acknowledging that line at all. “If you were another man, say, richer in gold and in land than myself or Bolingbroke, would you have done the same?” It was less of a challenge, then, than the first time he had asked it of York. More genuine.

It took York by surprise. What sort of cause could have made the brash Northumberland bite his tongue and attempt diplomacy with him? In their previous dealings, he had never seen Northumberland think through his words at all.

The sun broke through the overcast sky and shot its beams through York’s chamber window. They fell to earth and dappled the floor between the two men, as if its presence would break their silence.

And York understood.

_He will tear your city down, o lei, o lai, o lord._

Men are ephemeral things that languish on this earth for their brief time, and die again. Even Richard is, or was, a man. York had never been loyal to the head beneath the crown, but the country it stood for. Perhaps the rays of light had illuminated that for him, or maybe it was Northumberland’s oddly measured gaze that did it. But suddenly, York knew what he would say.

“I love my country. Of course I would have done the same.”

_O lei, o lai, o lei, o lord._

When Northumberland left, York felt like a different man.

_He will tear your city down, o lei o lai o lord._


	2. Poet (Henry Bolingbroke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Northumberland realizes Bolingbroke talks good.

There were few people on this earth that would describe Henry Bolingbroke as gifted with words. He was a passable orator, sure, but his style was straightforward and grounded, unlike his cousin Richard’s. Where Richard gave himself to extensive metaphors and high-minded allusions, Bolingbroke was practical and direct with you. There wasn’t much to mull over once he had said what needed to be said.

Northumberland respected him greatly, but more for the strength of his cause than for the eloquence with which he described it. Old John of Gaunt had picked up his schoolboy love for Roman rhetoric again in his old age. Henry, in the prime of his life, had the energy to make Lancaster’s dreams reality.

_There will come a poet whose weapon is his word._

And yet, for all this, Northumberland cannot help but hear an echo when Bolingbroke’s voice resounds in Westminster Hall again. It comes naturally to Henry; he slips into the majestic plural, he speaks of sureties, he orders men with no less force of will than his cousin did.

Northumberland rips his attention from Bolingbroke forcibly as Richard and his party enter. The young king is worn and aged. He is as much a servant to Bolingbroke as the minor lords who sit surrounding him are— and judging by the way he stares at Bolingbroke, Richard knows this well. Northumberland, well placed to watch the tense conversation of eyes between the two kings, lets his face contort into a smirk.

How did this plain-spoken duke come to loom over eloquent Richard?

_He will slay you with his tongue, o lei, o lai, o lord._

How does a man of few words become a vaunted king?

_O lei, o lai, o lei, o lord._

Richard protests, begs, whines, makes a (self-aware) mockery of his former state. He tests the limits of his new lord’s patience with long-winded speeches. Henry matches him with succinct replies, thematically the same and ideologically the opposite. And it only takes him a sentence or two to reverse Richard’s whole monologue and craft a meaningful reply in there as well.

Northumberland is proud to stand at Bolingbroke’s side. No, not Bolingbroke. Henry. The fourth of that name, as York had proclaimed him in this very hall.

Perhaps York’s pronunciation was still echoing in Westminster Hall when Richard left, defeated and broken.

_He will slay you with his tongue, o lei, o lai, o lord._


	3. King (Richard)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richard sees an old painting and thinks.

_ There will come a ruler, whose brow is laid in thorn. _

Richard had stared at a ruler like that twice today. 

Once, in Westminster Hall, when he had asked Bolingbroke for a glass in which to see himself, the anointed king even in his dilapidated state. The second, as he left the echoing room, men at his arms like animal-wranglers. He had ordered them to pause for a moment (now, even that was stretching the boundaries of his authority, but they had complied) so that he could look at one of the paintings on the walls. 

It was a small piece, and a simple one, really. Created in a better time. Richard remembered commissioning it. He remembered the moment when the artist had presented it to him and his queen, swaddled in velvet and held up like a solemn offering. He did not remember the artist’s name— some Frenchman, probably, but then again there were always Frenchmen and artists in his court, and after a while they began to swim together. (Well. There used to be Frenchmen and artists in his court. Now it wasn’t even his court anymore.) 

There the subject sat, in all his divinity. Encircled with streaming holy light and bathed in the rich royal hues that Richard preferred every portrait to be done in— the figure he had met the eyes of a thousand times before, in another life. In another time, perhaps, when they were equals. This figure was the Christ child. 

_ Smeared with oil like David's boy, o lei, o lai, o lord. _

And on the left of this little diptych, Richard himself. Also eons away. Ten years old, with a slight smile on his lips, and none the wiser as to how he had become the haggard man staring back at him.

_ O lei, o lai, o lei, o lord. _

Where had that balm, that anointed him king, that eased the descension of the crown upon his holy head, where had it gone?

_ Smeared with oil like David's boy, o lei, o lai, o lord. _

He was no longer worthy of being on the left hand side of the Christ child. Perhaps he never had been. 

The men at his sides, apparently determining that Richard had taken one too many moments staring vainly at his portrait, gripped him tighter and set to move.

_ O lei, o lai, o lei, o lord. _

Richard wanted to dig his heels in and hold them back until he felt done. Until he had memorized every last detail of the woeful diptych, and wrung every last ounce of pity from his captors and his Lord. 

Or did he just want to feel powerful enough to stop men at a whim again?

The thought broke Richard. He dropped his gaze from the painting and let it hang to the cold marble floor. There was nothing left in him to resist anymore.

Richard would go willingly. He would follow these men into the tower of Pomfret Castle, and relinquish the very last artifacts of power left to him. He would remain in Pomfret as he was now: gaze fixed to the floor, lacking the will to resist. 

_ He will tear your city down, o lei o lai— _

He would await the final judgement from the Christ child that sat at his image’s left hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The painting in question is actually a real thing, it’s called the Wilton Diptych. (I highly recommend looking it up, it’s very interesting.)


End file.
